So, yesterday, as n.o.c. drove us to work and I waxed eloquent over a particularly fine magnolia, we caught sight of a woman in a very short skirt. Though I was not wearing my glasses, I was able to discern a thin strip of denim perched precariously atop veritable miles of flesh. Chalking it up to the ebullience of spring, I gave the skirt wearer a little vernal fist pump, congratulating her on having the chutzpah to bare so much skin so early in the season. But as we drew nearer, n.o.c. squinted into the distance and asked, "Is that a man?"
Now, let's review the setting. It's 7:10 am. People are heading to work, drinking coffee, brushing their teeth, reading the paper. The morning is positively glorious. Cherry blossoms are being carried aloft on a light breeze. The sky is practically periwinkle. Bluebirds are cavorting. All is bathed in golden light. And on the corner of Calvert and 22nd, two transvestite hookers are plying their wares. You know, like hot cross buns.
Admittedly, I don't know all that much about the tranny prostitute scene, but I imagine that these ladies were not at the beginning of their shift. If that's the case, then I think that we could all learn a thing or two from this sort of entrepreneurial optimism. Believing in the possibility of further employment, these businesswomen worked into the daylight hours, hoping to increase their earnings by convincing some, oh, I don't know, investment banker, let's say,that things aren't so glum as they might seem. He need not begin his day with a lonely, bleary-eyed drive to a dismal and financially ruined office. Instead, he could begin his day by having a date with Destinee.